


Cross My Heart

by PoisonedRemedy



Category: The Walking Dead (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, Character Death - Sorta?, First Kiss, Flashbacks, Friends to Lovers, Grief, M/M, Mentions of homophobia, Much Anguish Before That Though, Slow Burn, Trauma, happy ending!
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-11-24
Updated: 2018-01-02
Packaged: 2019-02-06 06:15:27
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 13,271
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12811416
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PoisonedRemedy/pseuds/PoisonedRemedy
Summary: After years of close calls and a few outright suicide missions, it's finally happened - they messed up. Everyone underestimated Negan, and Rick lost the one person he couldn't bear to lose as a result.Fortunately enough, if there's anyone just stubborn enough to make it back from the grave, it would be Daryl Dixon.AN: Not particularly supernatural in nature, but I don't want to give away spoilers. Just read and see!





	1. Chapter 1

Daryl was back.

_Thank God._

Rick had never been much of a religious man, at least not by the standards of rural Georgia. He might have been slightly more inclined than some of the city dwellers he used to meet straying out of Atlanta, but he never could quite tell if that was habit of upbringing. One thing was sure, and that was any he'd considered any capacity for it long since gone after Lori's death. But when he saw the hunter – _his_ hunter – coming up the path to the Alexandria gates well, damn, if every thought in his head wasn't finding some way to thank the Almighty.

"Open 'em. Open the gates!" He yelled, hurling himself down from the platform. The impact sent a pang of nausia through his muscles, reminding him how little he'd eaten or slept for the last few days.

No matter. Daryl was _back._

His heart was beating that same fevered rhythm it had fallen into the day Saviors had first found them, one it had refused to cease since. How it managed to maintain such an insistant flutter was far beyond Rick's understanding. After everything, fear had become so ubiquitous, particular pricks of pain and sorrow losing their character and fading into a terrible ambient noise, he'd almost forgotten what it was like to be dominated by it again. At some point along the way he'd learned to disconnect from the worst of it. In a world with this much death you couldn't even survive, never mind lead _,_ without putting some distance between you and the corpses that trail behind you. He'd thought he could deal with the inevitable loss and still keep something like a level head, leading his people when they needed him.

But what Negan did to Abraham, to _Glenn_ , that shook him in a way he hadn't anticipated. One had been a behemoth of a man, surely invunerable to everything but the very tanks he looked designed to command, while the latter was a father who'd now never meet his child and Rick's oldest friend in the apocalypse. That wasn't how it was supposed to go. Perhaps some poetic part of Rick had started to think of all this as a story, maybe a trial by fire _,_ or some perverse game perhaps, but ultimately something with _rules_. Something they could win if they just worked out how to play it right. Arrogance incarnate. There was no reason or rhyme to Abraham or Glenn's death. They'd both deserved to survive to a ripe old age, _could_ have survived, and that opportunity had been taken away on some bastard's whim. It was a corruption of the narrative Rick had fooled himself into believing. They died for nothing, a grim reminder that reality doesn't always punish you for being too weak or two stupid, sometimes it just punishes you 'cause it can. Rick had got too used to winning. He'd let himself take the group and its strength for granted, let himself think that they'd finally mastered whatever this thing was, and he'd lost people he loved because of it.

Still, it wasn't the first time Rick had fallen victim to his own overconfidence, and he's lost more family members since the apocalypse than he'd had in a lifetime before it. He might have held out against the Saviors anyway, however reckless and brash and downright stupid it might have been. Negan cowed him into submission for a night, but Rick's conviction could move mountains and boil the seas and Negan was just a man with a baseball bat. He could have found the strength to fight him, maybe, despite all the danger. Once he'd got home, talked to his people and made a plan, it could have happened.

If only they hadn't taken _Daryl._ Negan was a depraved monster, but hell if he wasn't a shrewd kind of evil. He'd known what he needed to take to keep Rick loyal. Somehow, he'd seen in seconds what it had taken Rick years to see; Daryl was the key to Rick's mettle. Maybe it was his cop training, maybe it was in his psychology, but Rick had always had a right-hand man. With Daryl by his side, Rick could do anything. It was the cocky self-assurance that he could be locked up by cannibals and still _certain_ he was going to win. If the two of them had gone home together that day, a counterattack would have been in the works by sundown.

But without him? Knowing he was held, somewhere, his future and safety dependent on Rick's every move?

Well, Rick wasn't getting any big ideas, that was for sure.

Rick had wondered if Negan knew the whole truth of it. Had he only thought he was kidnapping the enemy's lieutenant? Had he any inkling how much _more_ Daryl was to Rick? There had been a moment - one _hellish_ moment - where he'd felt certain he was seeing the hunter's face for the last time before Lucille took away one of last goddamn divine things in his life. And that's just it - Daryl _was_ divine. 'Cause maybe Rick had no need for religious appeals anymore, but maybe that's just 'cause he made do by taking all those ragged shreds of faith and wrapping Daryl up in them instead. Had Negan known that Daryl wasn't just his best friend and his confidant and his right-hand man (though God, how _lucky_ was he for all that), had he known that Daryl was the last thing in Rick's mind before he fell asleep, the voice in the darkness, his reason to believe again? Had Negan seen any of that in the torment in Rick's face? Had he known that - in that moment - Rick would have given up it all? Submitted to anything and everything, served Negan till death did they part, if it would keep Daryl _safe?_

Probably not, but whatever Negan thought, he'd achieved his goal. Instead of planning for war like he should have been, like Michonne and Maggie and everyone else wanted him to be doing, all Rick had been able to do was play along best he could, desperate to keep Daryl from harm. When his mind wasn't occupied gathering guns and supplies for Negan, grandiose plans to free Daryl filled his thoughts, because it was damn hard to thing of enough _else,_ but he daren't try any of them. He knew what the Saviors were willing to do. One wrong move and Daryl would end up like Glenn and Abraham, and Rick might just not bounce back from that one.

He was terrified for all of Alexandria too, of course. Just he was open about it for once. That's why he said they were going along with Negan's demands. _He's too powerful. He's got more people than we do. Too many of ours will die._ None of the things he said were a lie. But his last addendum might have been: _We can't win._ Truth be told, they might. Rick knew his group was smarter, more resourceful. In all out war? They could do it, maybe. But Daryl would have died. It was a virtual certainty, and Rick couldn't have endured it. To see him executed in front of him like Hershel, or to break into the compound and be confronted by his reanimated corpse? No. He was already falling apart as it was. So maybe he decieved his people, but just a little.

The beautiful upside was that those choices didn't matter anymore.

Daryl was here _._ He had broken himself out.

He was back.

Michonne hadn't even finished opening the gate before Rick was through it. The expression on Daryl's face mirrored his own; awkwardly torn between the urge to laugh and weep openly. He allowed himself both, no point even attempting composure right now.

He saw Daryl's mouth curve in a shy smile that made Rick's stomach positively _glow._ His eyes swept the hunter's boder for injury and was relieved to see anything he had seemed mostly superficial, although still more than he was comfortable seeing. He was thinner, but not much, and curved muscles still dominated his frame in a way that made Rick's heartbeat quicken in a manner humorously absurd for the situation. In just a minute or two they'd be reunited, and Rick could finally tell Daryl everything. Tell him the stuff and things he'd been afraid to rush before, but was more than desperate to share now, because he'd been confronted with losing that chance and it's just too damn important to wait a minute longer. Then they could finally plot how to take down the Saviors and do this _together_ like they were meant to and -

A shot rang out.

Somewhere from the trees he heard Negan's laugh, and the warmth in Rick's stomach instantly curdled.

Daryl stumbled forward. For a moment, one blessed moment, it seemed as though the bullet had missed and he took another few paces forward. Rick saw the flash of a mop of hair as he fell towards the ground.

_No._

Everything happened at once.

He took off in a run. Begging – praying – that Daryl had only tripped. That the shot had only grazed him and he'd be back on his feet in a second.

Daryl didn't get up.

_No. No. No! No!_

Distantly, Rick heard more shots flying by him. Heard Negan calling his name, tauntingly. Without thinking – without stopping – he lifted his eyes, and his gun, to the tree-line. The nearest Saviour was twenty feet away.

Rick put a hole between his eyes and kept running.

"Nice _shot,_ Rick!" Negan praised. "But what are _you_ doing with a gun? Here I thought we'd reached a nice little agreement on that on arms posession, or lack thereof. Maybe killing Daryl isn't enough, we'll have to take another one of yours and make sure the lesson really sinks in."

Feeling a prickling in his eyes and refusing to accept the claim in Negan's words, Rick took another shot, barely looking, and somehow downed yet another Savior. More bullets flew by his head. He kept waiting for the one that would get him – kept expecting to feel the pain rip through him, physical pain to overwhelm the torment he already felt – to fall to the ground like Daryl just had, but somehow, _somehow,_ they kept missing. Later he would wonder if they were under orders to miss, but in the moment he felt armored by his own wrath.

"Rick, I'm getting _angry_ now." And he sounded it this time. Clearly losing two men hadn't been part of the plan.

Rick pressed on, carried by the storm that was driving him forward. Nothing was more important than that man on the ground in front of him. He took more shots, not bothering to check where his marks fell.

He was almost there.

Negan stepped out of the trees, still a distant figure but unmistakeable. "Hey, Rick!" he called, as if greeting an old friend.

He was out of range. Long out of range. Taking a shot would be stupid – he only had a few rounds left – but the sight of Daryl's limp body on the ground enraged him like nothing, _nothing_ ever had before and goddamn it if he wouldn't defend him with everything he had. He took the shot anyway.

Suddenly Daryl was in front of him. "Daryl!" He skidded to his knees beside him, tossing aside his firearm. "Daryl, I'm here!"

Daryl gasped for air, "Rick..."

Alive. He was alive.

"It's okay. Daryl." It was everything _but_ okay. Daryl's shirt was soaked so red it was hard to tell where the wound was. He tore it open and cursed to see multiple entry wounds. Once he'd found what looked to be the worst of it – it couldn't have taken more than a few seconds, _but it's second I can't spare_ \- he grabbed the shirt again and applied pressure as best he could with his shaking hands.

"Stay with me, Daryl," he pleaded. "It's alright."

"Rick, ah..." His eyes dropped in and out of focus, like he knew Rick was there, somewhere, but couldn't quite see him.

"Shhh. Save your energy." He cupped Daryl's face with his free hand, stroking his beard with his thumb to reassure the hunter of his presence. He tried to force a calmness into his voice he didn't feel, but he could still hear the tremble in his words. "We're gonna get you out of here." He swung round to see Michonne running towards them with a group of Alexandrians. It occurred to him that the Saviors should be upon them by now, but he didn't waste time questioning the respite.

"Ah..." Daryl coughed and Rick's heart chilled to see blood spurt from his mouth. At least the jolt finally let Daryl's eyes focus on Rick's. "Ah... don't think ahm makin it out of this one, Rick." With great effort he lifted his hand to Rick's face and stroked gently, mirroring his own action. "Glad...glad you're here though." He coughed again.

"Bullshit." It can't end like this, no, no, _no_. It was all wrong. There was so much they still had to do. They had lasted this long, _years_ , they were so _close_. "Stay with me, Daryl!"

Michonne had arrived and fell down beside him. "Help me carry him," he cried. "Help me." The tears that had started as relief now stained his face as a sodden mess of anguish and terror.

Michonne took in the scene in front of her and let out a gasp. In a fraction of a she saw what Daryl already knew and Rick did too, but refused to admit: Daryl wasn't going to survive this. "Rick...Oh God, Rick..." she whispered shakily, placing a hand on his shoulder as if it could steady the earthquake in his mind.

"No!" A sob wrenched from him. "Come on, Daryl."

"Ahm sorry, Rick." He was crying too now. "Ah wanted to...ah wanted us..." his hand fell back to the ground, overcome with the effort.

"We're gonna be us, Daryl," Rick assured him, "You and me. Way it's meant to me." Motioning to Michonne to cover the wound, he cradled Daryl's head and reverently placed a kiss into his hair. Some rogue suggestion of muscle memory had the nerve to tell him how much he'd _missed this_ and his stomach wretched.

Daryl tried what might have been a smile. "Ahd like that..." His eyes fell closed.

"No! Daryl! Daryl, come on, stay with me. I can't do this without you. Don't _leave_ me. No, no, no!" His actions became increasingly frantic. Hands trembling, he ran his hands through the hunter's hair, kissed his face – his eyes, his ears, his mouth – anything that might bring him back. The lack of response broke his heart. "I love you..."

Rick had thought a lot about how he would first say those words. Late at night on the porch of his house, perhaps. Coming back from a run. In Rick's bed. How they would sound on his lips for the first time. He'd never thought it would be in defeat and desperation like this. He'd known the truth of them for so long, too long. Why had he waited so God damn long? Now that he started, he couldn't stop. "I love you. I love you, Daryl. Like no one else. You're everything to me. I can't _do_ this. You hear me? Come on, Daryl." He pleaded against hope, as if any such desperate declaration could reverse time and bring a man back to life. The words that had echoed through his mind for months suddenly felt pointless and empty in light of the agony that was overwhelming him now.

Daryl's head lulled forward in his hands, and he was gone.

* * *

Rick had no memory of the events that followed. Later they would be relayed to him, and he supposed he should feel ashamed that he wasn't there to lead, to protect the group when they needed him. But he couldn't feel anything but numb about that day.

Sometime later it would become apparent that the Saviors had been stationed in the woods surrounding Alexandria for a while. They must have known Daryl had escaped right from the beginning. Maybe they'd even let it happen. They'd known where he'd go and camped out and waited for him. Maybe Negan had somehow known just how important the man he'd captured was, because he'd engineered the situation so Daryl would die right in front of Rick's eyes.

The Saviors hadn't, however, accounted for what happened next.

Negan was dead too.

No one could quite believe it at first. Rick had fired at an impossible distance. He was a good marksman, but that couldn't change the laws of physics. _No one_ should have made that shot, not with that pistol. So when red burst from Negan's chest and he fell to the ground, that stupid grin still plastered on his face, no one quite knew what to do. Rick fell to the ground beside the man he loved while everyone else was enveloped in a wave of confusion. Once it became apparent their leader wasn't getting up again, there must have been some conflicting reactions within the ranks. Negan wasn't the only one Rick had taken out either. No one knew exactly how many he'd downed with his erratic run-and-gun technique but, judging by the number of bodies, it was enough to put significant fear in many of the Saviours. Without guidance and suffering major casualties, the Saviors were hesitant to continue aggressive action. Evidently Negan hadn't cared much to make a contingency plan.

The Alexandrians were quicker to react. Led by Aaron, only a couple of seconds passed before the Saviors were under fire. Ironically they had the larger numbers, but were still lost without anyone to co-ordinate their movements. Likely a few of them were wondering who exactly was going to take charge even if they _did_ capture Alexandria. A few raised their weapons again, but the majority ran. It didn't take much to run the stragglers out.

Alexandria stood that day and Negan was dead.

But so was Daryl.

* * *

Did it matter?

 _Did any of it matter?_ Rick found himself asking for the hundredth time that day.

He held his head in his hands and wondered when would it _end._ It had been only a week since Abraham and Glenn. Only a week since Daryl had last been in his arms. A week since he'd felt the hunter's hot breath in his ear and seen those blue eyes that calmed him like a cool breeze. The memories were still fresh, but he'd lost people so many damn times he knew it was only a matter of time before he started to forget. He couldn't stand to imagine losing the thought of Daryl's face..

Only a week since the Saviors had torn away damn near everything that still mattered to Rick.

It wasn't like with Lori. Before – on those dark days when he imagined Daryl's death – he thought it might have been, but it wasn't.

Lori had been an ending. An ending to a story more than a decade in the making. It was awful, horrific, heart wrenching. But inevitable. Sometime after the turn (though he wasn't even sure it _was_ after) his marriage had changed. Lori had loved Shane, he knew it, she just needed Rick more. She needed him too much to do anything about it and he almost hated her more for that than if she'd just _left._

Lori had been his world for as long as he could remember, losing her should have felt like losing the world. And it did, in a way. But losing the old world. Saying goodbye to normalcy and the way things _should_ be.

And Rick had been saying goodbye to that for a long time. Once, back in the C.D.C., ( _God, that was so long ago now)_ he'd told that man, Jenner, that he hadn't. He'd said he believed he was going to lose everything. To Shane, to the walkers, to _whatever_ , it was only a matter of time. Losing Lori was just proof of his fears.

It was Daryl who'd changed his mind. Daryl who'd given him reason to go on. Not just to fight, but to _believe._ Daryl, who had adapted to this world better than anyone else. Sometimes Rick swore he almost thrived in it. Unlike Lori, Daryl had never needed Rick or anyone else for anything. He could have survived without the group, might've been one of the only ones in the world who could. Yet he'd stood by Rick through it all, even long before those first tentative kisses and wispered confessions. Let Rick feel like he was needed, even though he clearly wasn't. No one in the world could have tamed Daryl if he didn't want to be tamed, and yet somehow he'd decided to let Rick get someplace close.

He could have left at any time. Hell, Rick has to admit he probably should have after that first incident with Merle. Half the group still didn't trust him back then, and the rest needed nothing less than baby sitting. But he chose to stay. He chose Rick, first his leader, then his friend, then (oh, _God_ ) his lover. And hadn't that been best thing that had ever happened to him. He still couldn't believe how lucky he'd been that it had happened at all. That Daryl, the most intense, resistant, defiant man he'd ever met, and the most _beautiful_ human being, had picked him. He'd knocked Rick's world off its axis and Rick had never even had a chance to tell him.

Where Lori was an ending, Daryl was a beginning. The two of them together, Carl and Judith. They could have made it to the end, and not just surviving. Like a fool, Rick had let himself believe that one day they could have grown old together, and had something resembling a life. Daryl had just seemed so damn _invincible_ that it hadn't ever seemed as ridiculous as it did now.

But it was ridiculous. And whatever dreams he'd had didn't matter anymore. Daryl was gone, as fragile as anyone else.

He wondered if the pit in his stomach would ever close this time.

Wiping his eyes, he tore his gaze away from Daryl's grave.

"Fuck. I'm sorry. I gotta...I gotta go."

Much as it felt like it, the world hadn't stopped to accomodate Rick's grief. Negan's death had been a blow to the Saviors, but he doubted they'd be gone for long. They still had the superior numbers, and Alexandria was a fine prize. They'd be back and, much as he could barely stand upright, it was _his_ responsibility to see his people were ready.

"I don't want to. I don't want to do _any_ of this without you."

He rubbed his forehead, somehow still unable to find the words, even though he's been grasping for hours. Where could he even start?

"You were never that much for talking, guess that was supposed to be my job. And look," He gestured to the paltry cross in the ground. "I guess it still is."

He tried to laugh, but the notion caught in his throat and tasted bitter. Panic siezed him, and he paced restlessly.

"I don't know what to say to you. There's nothing to say, right? Nothing, and everything. This is the place were never meant to be. I wish we could've been... God, I _wish_."

Years of unfullfilled promises flooded before his eyes and he had to strain to block them out, just as he had all day and night, and throughout the entirety of the impromptu funeral that morning. Denial was the only thing keeping him lucid.

"I - I can't. I'm not ready to do this yet. I'm not ready to bury you."

Feeling like the pain in his heart would surely kill him, and in this moment not entirely sure that would be a bad thing, he made his way back to the group.

* * *

Somewhere, in a different world entirely, Daryl Dixon's eyes slammed open.

"Rick!"

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi all! This is my first fan fiction in a long, long time, I do hope you'll enjoy it! The next chapter is almost ready to go and there'll be plenty more after that. Apologies for the cliffhanger!
> 
> The story is roughly canon-compliant until somewhere in Season 7, except that Rick never got with any women after Lori. (I haven't watched the entire show in some years though, so please do forgive any little changes.) Let me know what you think!


	2. Chapter 2

Daryl's last memories were of Rick's hands on his face, and pale blue eyes fading from sight, like the sun over the horizon.

Then everything went black.

For a long time, or what might have been no time at all, there was...nothing.

Then he was falling.

He tried to open his eyes, but there was nothing to open. No sensation reached him at all except that the ground had opened up and he was plummeting into the abyss. His mouth tried gasping for air, to call for Rick, even just to scream, but nothing passed his lips, and when he made a grab out at something to stay his fall, he realised every nerve in his body was unresponsive. Daryl realised then that he may not even _have_ a body anymore. Terror gripped him as he realised he was dying and it was _nothing_ like as peaceful as people made it out to be. This was it, _this was the end_ , after everything -

But Daryl had never been a coward, and he sure as hell wasn't ready to die, not if he could help it.

Some distant part of his mind recalled a poem he'd been told in high school or seen in a movie somewhere. Not that he'd ever been allowed much chance to like poetry, his father told him it was a hoby for fags, while his teachers said he hadn't the brain to understand it, but for whatever reason this one had stuck with him.

_Do not go gently into that good night._

Rick had kissed him, that evening before the Saviours. That had been gentle, but not a goodbye, no, it was full of hope and promises like everything they did together. It was what kept him going through every night of Negan's toture. He had to get _back_ -

_Rage, rage against the dying of the light._

If that's what he needed, well there was nothing Daryl was better at. He pushed his fear deep down inside himself and screamed and yelled and kicked with all of the nothing he had. Ain't no soul, divine or otherwise, gonna keep him in this shithole.

"Why don't you go _fucking fuck yourself_!" He yelled.

He slammed into the ground.

And bolted upright.

His eyes were open. Oxygen entered his lungs again. He felt feeling returning to his limbs and the firmness of the surface beneath him. All the little sensations and feelings, inputs to his senses he'd never even noticed before, now testified loud and clear that he was _alive._ He couldn't help but marvel at his own ragged breathing and the thin film of sweat outlining the body he thought he'd lost.

 _Rick._ "Rick!"

Where was he? He swung his head round, checking first for danger (habit) then for the man he loved. But he was alone.

Blinking rapidly and shaking his head to accustom to the overwhelming return of reality, he took in his surroundings.

He wasn't outside Alexandria anymore. Sure as hell didn't look like no afterlife he'd ever heard of 'neither. Desk. Wardrobe. Mattress under his ass. Some bedroom. Still lived in, by the looks of things. Bunch of personal affects and crap, not much dust. Daryl wasn't much invested in any sort of luxuries; anything was better than a Savior cell, but it wasn't his or Rick's room, and it didn't look much like any of rooms in Alexandria he'd been inside.

Still, satisfied that he was safe for the immediate future, he felt on his chest for the bullet wound. Nothing. _What?_ He could still feel the ghost of his chest being ripped open, swore he still felt the faint smudge of blood on his cheeks from where Rick had held him. Yet there wasn’t a mark on him. _Jesus_. _Long was I out?  
_

Shaking his head again, he swung out of bed. He was about to call out again for Rick or Carol, but realised he had no idea where he was, and no weapon. He didn’t think the Saviors would just leave him unsupervised in a bed like this, but he wasn’t taking any chances, and no way in hell he was wandering around new territory unarmed. Crouching into a defensive position, he noticed a cache of empty beer bottles gathered near the door. _It'll do_. He bust one open on a nearby desk, careful not to let the glass fall near his feet since it wasn’t exactly his first time doing this. Still though, it was best not to go barefoot. He paused a second, listening carefully for any reaction to the sound he'd made, then grabbed a pair of shoes from the end of the bed.

What was going on? Was Rick okay? Who had dragged him off the street and into some strange new place, still bothering to leave him a fresh set of clothes?

The shoes were pretty decent fit, truth be told. Got lucky, or someone had picked them out special for him. Actually looked a bit like the ones he wore before –

Daryl's head snapped up.

He looked again at the room. Fuck. He hadn't even _noticed_ , it had been so goddamn long. Crappy rock posters on the walls, Miller bottles in the corner, plaid sheets, and that fuckin' oak tree across the way he'd fallen out of once and busted his leg on. Must have been years ago, but it was his. It was _his_ goddamn room. From before the outbreak.

But his room...his room was back in Atlanta. He'd been shot outside Alexandria, in Virginia _._ What the _fuck._ Why had the group come all the way back here? How did they even know which house was his?

His stomach tightened

No longer afraid of someone bursting into the room, he hesitantly pushed himself up and walked towards the doorway. Bottle still in one hand, he let the other hover over the light switch that was now looming over him. Fear overwhelmed him, and for a moment he was frozen, as if by choosing not to flick it he could choose not to know, he could deny the truth of this world a little bit longer. Funny how little things like that tiny little lever had become totally inconsequential in the apocalypse, unnoticeable until they changed your world.

He flicked the switch.

The light came on.

Daryl inhaled deeply. There was a grid. Power was online. Which meant _either_ in the time he'd been sleeping humanity had somehow managed to return electricity to the entirety of west Atlanta and caried his sorry ass back to the same goddamn bed he'd left, or – _or..._

Searching for confirmation, he dropped the bottle and scrambled over to the wardrobe – _his_ wardrobe, and yanked it open. There was his crossbow in the same place he'd always kept it, and – _shit_ \- a full set of bolts fresher than anything he'd used in months. _No._ Anyone could have done that, it was the stupid kind of considerate crap Rick would do. He needed to _know._ He rifled through the clothes, tossing them all unceremoniously onto the floor until he despaired to find what he’d been looking for - the shirt he'd worn first day of the apocalypse, long since gone, torn up and used as some tourniquet or another, and yet it was somehow also _here_ , grubby, but ultimately intact.

He reeled backwards, crunching over the broken glass. The sound gave him some relief, forcing some chaos into this overwhelming, suffocating normality.

Everything was as it had been before he left. The apocalypse hadn't happened.

It was... a dream?

He fell back on the bed, head in hands and struggling to breath. A dream. All that death – that loss, that horror – none of it real, just the product of his own sick imagination. It didn't make any sense, he'd been gone for _years_. How was that even possible? All _this_ , his life from before, what was that to him? He barely even remembered it. The room he'd spent all his teenage years in was alien to him now. A collection of trinkets that had long lost any importance. Could a dream really do that?

He waited for the relief to pour over him. It meant no more running. No more living on the edge, living from day to day, knowing any one could be his last. No more of Negan, or the Saviours, or the Claimers or the Wolves or any of the other sumofabitches. He wasn't just alive again, he had his life back. It was everything he'd long since lost hope of. It was _over._

He should feel relieved, or _something_. But all he felt was numb. It was too much. Fuck.

 _It'll fade,_ he told himself. _That's what dreams do. They feel real at first, but they always fade._ With great effort, he slowed his breathing. Tried to feel grateful. He didn't have to live in that fear anymore. Could sleep like a regular human being again. Didn't have to worry about the group, about how any one of them could be taken away at any moment. What had happened to Glenn and Abraham, that wasn't real, those people hadn't even _existed_. He didn't have to worry about Carol or Michonne or Maggie or Carl or lil asskicker, – fuck, this line of thought _was not helping_. He was gasping for air again, couldn’t help himself from hurling another bottle against the wall. "No!" The smash of glass gave him a short respite, but it wasn’t enough. Instead he punched at the wall, bruising his knuckles, then punched again. Anything to distract from this. They were just _gone_.

Rick.

Oh God, _Rick._

 _Of course I dreamed him up_ , he thought with a rattling breath. The sense of it shocked him. How could someone like that have actually existed? A sheriff who'd rode up into town and rescued them all, like something out a fairytale. Forging a family out of a band of broken people, and making Daryl feel like part of that that. Sappy bullshit, all of it. Sappy bullshit he'd _believed._

_Rick’s hands coiled in his hair, pulling him close, whispering in his ear that he was special –_

Shit, he must’ve been so desperate. Dreaming of some grandoise white knight that could come and take all the broken pieces of Daryl’s soul and just piece them back together like it was nothing. Every compliment, every reassuring remark or teasing jibe, all of it Daryl talking to _himself,_ telling himself the things he wanted to hear. What the fuck.

He’d been so goddamn naive, the truth shone crystal clear in his face. There was no one that wonderful and that thoroughly _decent._ Even if there was, pretty obvious now that only in his dreams could they could have possibly wanted Daryl.

But he'd been stupid enough to believe it anyway. What did that say about him? All those months they’d danced around each other – waiting for the other one to make the first move, and when they finally – _finally_ – had, the taste of Rick’s skin and sweat, the feeling of his breath ghosting over Daryl’s scars, telling him he was beautiful no matter what, all of it was just the depraved fantasy of a man who hadn’t gotten any in years.

He didn’t even want to think about what it meant that he’d fantasised about sucking off a fucking _cop._

"No, no, no. Come on, Rick. Come _on_." He pulled at his hair and rammed his eyes shut, willing the man he'd loved to life. He could still see the curve of his jawline, feel the rough texture of his beard underneath his hands. The soft warmth of his lips. He felt so _real. "_ Fucking, _no!"_ For the first time in a long time he felt like a kid again, utterly defenceless. "Shit. _Shit."_ He collapsed again, this time sobbing.

He couldn't take it. He was used to death in that world, even accepted his own to some degree, but this felt so much worse. He had lost everyone, absolutely everyone, and not just to the inevitable draw of mortality but to something so much more obscene. The idea that they hadn't existed at all was such a grotesque and ugly perversion of of their memory. He couldn't help but feel repulsed by his surroundings, so free from any history - a crossbow that he'd never taught Beth how to hold, clothes Carol had never washed and thrown playfully at his face, a bed he'd never shared with Rick.

Shaking, he languished on the bed, desperately wanting to do anything, _anything_ to undo this abomination, but feeling utterly powerless and completely disgusted with himself. Eventually, once adrenaline had faded from his system and the tears had dried on his face, his panic was replaced with a deep sadness. Less so for himself, though there was that, but for all those lost people, the family he’d never had. Carol, who’d struggled through the death of her husband and daughter and come out the other side, Glenn and Maggie, whose love had been so much easier and purer than his own sick fixation on Rick, Michonne, who found the family she hadn’t been looking for and who’d been so much like him in that way, Judith Grimes, who’d survived against all the odds and still knew how to laugh for no reason.

They’d all come so far and taken so much strength from one another. Grown together from strangers into something so much more.

Except they hadn’t.

No one had done a damn thing.

Daryl curled up into the bed, clutching his pillow like a damn child. He didnt know what to do, how to make this go away. All he knew what to do was fight, 'cept this wasn't a problem that fists or bullets could solve. He was alone. 

_Help me, Rick._

He didnt know he lay there. He couldnt seem to stay still, periodically throwing pillow away angrily, getting up to kick some furniture, before collapsing back down, hands pressed onto his face like they could hold in the grief.

Eventually, after what must have been more than an hour, a distraction came.

The distant sound of a revving engine penetrated his misery.

For a moment he wondered if Rick had actually heard him, but of course he hadn't. All this time and Daryl still knew exactly what make that sound.

"Merle," he whispered softly, scarcely daring to believe it, and shocked at himself that the idea of seeing his older brother again hadn’t occurred until now. Finding strength he didn't know he had, he jumped up and made his way to the front door.

* * *

 

"Alright, Darylina? Woken up from your little siesta?" Merle chuckled and switched off the engine of _that_ damn motorcycle.

It was a long time before Daryl said anything. He'd buried Merle, literally and figuratively, even got to the stage where maybe he didn't quite think about him much any more. _Fuck._ What was he even supposed to feel? He was a dickbag, an _asshole_ , but it was his brother. He was real and alive and, shit, he had both fucking _hands._ That simple fact drove home the reality of all of this more than anything else up until now. He had to force himself not to panic again, closing his eyes to restore his breathing.

"Yeah, could say that." He looked at the ground, then back at Merle again, then at the ground. So many emotions welled up inside him and there weren't no words to convey them. He went towards his brother, fast as he dared, feeling bizarrely like he was approaching something as fierce as a bull, yet delicate as a butterfly. Once there, he reached out his hand and slowly, hesitantly, placed it on the larger man's shoulder, as if touching his flesh might burn him. His eyes hadn't lied, the man was real _._

Merle's eyes darted to Daryl's hand then back to his face. "You comin' on to me baby brother? You know I ain't do guys unless you buy me some smack first."

Daryl smiled, despite himself. "Nah. Just missed your shitty face is all." The words didn’t quite come out in the jokey manner he’d intended, but they were _true._ Despite it all, he'd missed this sack of shit. It was beyond surreal. He’d lost plenty of people, even before the apocalypse, half the time he drove them away himself, but he wasn’t ever used to them coming back.

Only fitting that it should be Merle, really. No one was quite as indestructible as his older brother, and that was something his imagination had gotten right at least. Prick _would_ cut off his own off before he went down, even if it was a dream.

He felt the beginning of tears pricking his eyes once more. He'd thought he'd ran out by now, but guess that was only the sad kind.

Merle squinted at the moisture welling up in Daryl’s eyes, before apparently electing to ignore it. He stood up, and Daryl's hand fell back to his side. "Whatever Darylina. Just make sure you stay in _your_ room tonight," he said, though not unkindly. He wiped off his hands on a rag and started towards the house.

Daryl almost let him go. He needed time to process this. He and Merle had never been one for sentimentality, it was enough that he was here, didn't think anything needed _said_. But he had to know, couldn't leave this standing while there was the slightest bit of hope -

"You don't remember?"

Merle didn't turn around, though Daryl had thought he might, "Remember what?"

Daryl took a deep breath. "Didn't have any... any dreams last night? Like you was somewhere else?"

This time Merle did turn. He looked at Daryl for a minute, and for a moment Daryl thought he _did_ remember, but then the face wrinkled up like he'd been asked the most stupid question of his life. "What?"

"Apocalypse? End of days, that sorta stuff?"

Merle paused for a second, that angry confusion never leaving his face. But he paused for so long Daryl was sure he _must_ remember.

"...Nah"

Daryl's shoulders sagged, and he tried not to let the disappointment overwhelm him.

"Been sleepin' too long Daryl. Need some fresh air in that brain of yours."

* * *

He was probably right.

Daryl hadn't been able to cope with the claustrophobia of the house. He’d stuck around to stare at Merle for a bit, but he was clearly starting to piss his brother off and fuck, he was overwhelmed by lost memories and ghosts in that place. It hadn't been home to him for a long time. He'd done the only thing he could think off that wasn't smashing more bottles and gone hunting instead.

It helped. The forest hid the obscene sight of civilization, let him think that he was back there. _Home._ Funny how it had never been in one place. It was right there, behind this tree and that. Check there and he'd find Sasha and Tara, Glenn and Maggie, Carol, Michonne, Rick, all out on a run with him. He knew it was all fake, but the feeling in his gut still insisted otherwise and he indulged it.

Couple of times he successfully held the delusion for as much as an hour. When he did, all the tension eased out of him and even he started to enjoy himself. Paradoxical to have fun, he supposed, imagining a world dominated by flesh-eating monsters. Of course the illusion was shattered whenever he thought too much about it anyway. He'd imagine Rick's face when he brought back what he caught. It would be hardened and unreadable in front of the group, because that was his leader face and he couldn't relax it as freely and easily as he once could. But there'd also be that little hint of a smile he kept just for Daryl, and that would mean he was proud. Once they were back behind closed doors, the mask would fall off and Rick would pull him into his arms, smelling his hair, whispering in his ear how glad he was that Daryl was safe while his hands trailed down his back and under his shirt...

Yeah, he'd think too hard about it and the memory shattered.

The squirrel didn’t even make a noise when his bolt impaled it to the tree.

He was a damn sight better hunter than before, that was for sure. Maybe it was having to provide for a whole group, maybe it was always being on alert for walkers, maybe it was just being so fucking angry at the world right now, but whatever it was he was raking up more squirrels than he'd ever done before the walkers. Could a dream really do that?

What did it fuckin' matter. Every time he remembered, loneliness crunched in his stomach sharper than all that broken class he'd showered his room with. His family was gone. No one gave a shit about him anymore. Merle was back, and he was trying so damn hard to be grateful for that (and he _was_ ) but he and Merle were bonded by blood and nothing else. That wasn't real family. Real family were the people you chose, who loved you and you loved 'em back, and you didn't have to think about why it was, it just _was_. At least, that's what he'd thought, back when he'd believed he'd had one. But he didn't. And he didn't know shit about them. That's what it was to be Daryl Dixon again. Piece of shit white trash who could only be at best tolerated by his own kind. Had to fuckin' dream up families and heroic sheriffs in some fantasy land just to get a bit of goddamn peace of mind.

He heard the snap of a branch nearby and instantly tensed, knife raised. It was a full five seconds before he realised he didn't have to do that any more. Nothing that could get him here, nothing in this part of the woods anyway. He was _safe._

So why did he feel more vulnerable than ever before?

He didn't know how many people the walkers had got in the end, but it must have damn near wiped the planet out. Those people were still alive. Millions, maybe even billions of them. The world's greatest tragedy averted. What sort of bastard was he that he couldn't find joy in that?

He hoped the memories would hurry up and fade already. Cause they weren't. True, little by little he was beginning to remember more of this world. He could remember a day he could call 'yesterday' that wasn't filled with walkers. He’d fixed up a falling beam in the shed out back. But the memory didn't make him feel any better, and it wasn't replacing that _other_ yesterday where he'd died outside Alexandria. ‘Cause that one felt just as real and solid, probably more so. Like he had these two parallel histories in his head. The outbreak happened in 2010. He somehow knew the date in this world ( _the real world?)_ was in 2012, and he supposed he had memories leading up to that, but they only sat beside the other memories. The ‘real world’ memories felt fake, as if _they_ were the dream, like some implant from a shitty sci-fi movie.

"Fucking _shit_ ," he muttered to no one in particular for at least the fourteenth time that day.

Fourteen squirrels were strung from his back and his eyelids felt heavy. Too many to be practical, really. It was just him and his brother now, no need for this kinda overexertion anymore. The sun was just beginning to set behind the trees too – time to head back.

But being back in that house didn't much appeal to him yet. The thought of going back to his bed, alone, sleeping like everything was fine and the world wasn’t caving in around him, felt like he would be conceding something. He’d rather stay out here under the stars, let himself believe he’d wake up back on the tarmac outside Alexandria, he figured he could allow himself that. Somehow he’d rather be there again, literally dying in Rick’s arms, than here without him. ( _Ungrateful piece of shit.)_

He hadn't brought his shit and the squirrels really needed freezing, no one in a sane world would dream of camping out like this, but Daryl wasn’t used to a sane world anymore.

He managed to clear out a space underneath a bush, unconsciously making sure to pick a spot well hidden from view since he still didn’t feel safe sleeping out in the open. Fortunately he managed to fight off the compulsion to construct any kind of warning system  for walkers like he used to, his muscles were exhausted and he might well have collapsed from the effort.

Once he’d made himself comfortable as he could ( _comfortable in the dirt where you belong_ ) he watched the last of the sun's light disappear through the trees, before closing his eyes and letting his mind drift to those pale blue eyes.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There we go! 
> 
> If you're curious, I've drawn up a plan that anticipates ~16 chapters in the series, but I'll hold off committing to a particular number since it's still early days.
> 
> Thank you so much for all the comments and kudos I've received so far, it means the world! Hopefully you'll forgive me for all the pain I'm gonna put these two through, it pains me as much as you. :(


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi everyone! Sorry it's been a while! I got caught up in my finals and ended up having to do a full re-write of this chapter cause I just was /not/ happy with it, but at least all this focus means it's a little bit longer than usual! I hope you all had wonderful holidays and that you'll enjoy this (slightly late) update! 
> 
> The story is switching to first person POV at this stage.

**Rick.**

**.**

**.**

You’re gone.

It’s the first thing in my mind when I wake up.

That doesn’t seem fair. Sleep is supposed to be peaceful, you’d think. The morning’s that time when you don’t remember anything at all, that period of blissful ignorance, a few moments of peace before the rest of the world catches up.

That’s how it was with Lori, at least. It happened the first night I actually managed to get any sleep, though it was some time before I did, and every night after. In those first few moments of consciousness I always got the chance to forget. Like nothing had ever happened to us, not her death, not Shane, not even the fighting back when the word 'divorce' would have actually meant something. All those things that ruined us were just gone. Along with her, I guess. We didn’t even touch those last few months, not really, but after it happened I started reaching out for her in bed again, if you can believe it. My dreams were my respite; they brought her back to me, blocked out this world, if just for a second.

But maybe I shouldn’t compare you to her so much.

I’m sorry that I did. I still do and that’s not fair. You were never a replacement for her and I hope you knew that. 

But it _is_ different. I can’t forget what happened to you, even in my dreams, apparently. Last night it was Negan, he had you, tied and bound. He said you could come back to us, he was holding you ransom and making out like we was doing us a favour, but you had to beg for it and you wouldn’t. I tried to yell, to run, I tried to beg _for_ you, but nothing came out. You spat at his feet and said you’d rather die, and then your brains blew out.

If I’d woken up then I wouldn’t have seen your bored-out skull splattered across the ground like a child’s painting. But I guess my dreams ain’t gonna be as kind as before.

There’s no satisfaction in waking up to this world instead anyway. Negan died before you did, and I got a chance to say goodbye, I guess some might call that a better way to lose you, but it tastes like the same shit to me.

I reach out to your side of the bed and feel the sheets, like I did with Lori. I’m sure I get a whiff of your scent, but maybe I’m imagining it. Was it your side? I hoped so. We never talked about that, moving in together. I assumed we would have, eventually, but maybe you wouldn’t have liked that. You always needed your space, more than anyone else I’ve known.

You let me get close, though. I think that meant something. Fuck. I’m sorry I’m still thinking about Lori. It wasn’t like that, Daryl, I promise. We did mean something. It’s just hard not to get déjà vu about this whole thing. 

The group still needs me. Much as every part of my body is screaming no, it’s not the time to fall apart. I need to live up to some of the trust you put in me. This is our family, Daryl, and I know that’s how you thought of them. Maybe you didn’t get around to thinking about Carl and Judith as _our_ children, but its how it’s been for me for a long time. I hope you don’t mind me saying it now.

Judith is going to grow up and you won’t see it. Oh, God, I can’t even think about it yet.

But you’re her father, Daryl, much as I am. I knew it with cold, hard certainty before, and not a thing about it has changed. Please believe that.

I wonder if you can hear my thoughts. Are you out there, somewhere? Maybe you’re looking down on us all, from somewhere up above. Maybe you’re boasting real angel wings this time, not just the sewn-on ones on your jacket. It’s kind of funny to imagine, so I try to laugh. Don’t quite manage it, but I swear I hear you snorting in my head.

Imagine it, Daryl. You’d be all wrapped in white robes and a halo, trying to act all serene like they do in the paintings _._ It wouldn’t quite fit, and the imaginary-you in my head starts to look uncomfortable. Sad that it’s too easy to remember you that way. _Fuck is this, Rick,_ you say, _I ain’t no fuckin’ fairy_ , and you swing at me, but the anger doesn’t quite reach your eyes. Angels shouldn’t swear, I tell you, and besides, that wasn’t how it looked to me, but alright, Daryl, I’ll stop. Teasing you isn’t quite the same when you’re dead.

It’s time to get up, but I can’t quite yet. I know my responsibilities, but surely it wouldn’t hurt to stay and fantasize a little longer?

There’s a meeting today and it’s early. We’re going to talk about the Sanctuary, put together a plan to destroy them, before they do the same to us. To people other than myself, anyway. They've already destroyed me.

I’m scared, Daryl. They have more people than we do. I know we’ve beaten odds like that before, but we’ve lost so much at the same time. So little of our family is left. We keep running into these kinds of people, again and again and again. And every time, people die. At a certain point resisting the inevitable has gotta stop being worth it, right?

No, you don’t think that, silly to even ask. You’d rather die free than live in a cage.

Kinda why we’re here.

I’m not angry at you Daryl. I don’t know how much time I have left and I wouldn’t waste it on something as petty as that. But I wish you hadn’t done it. Just for once, I wish you’d kept your head down and listened to orders. Whatever opportunity to escape it was that you saw, you should have just ignored it. I know being trapped was your worst nightmare, but I would have you right back in that cell for however many months it needed, if I could. I’d have traded your freedom for your life in a heartbeat. Please don’t hate me for it.

Now so many people have put their lives in my hands. It’s not like it’s the first time, but I don’t know what to do with it anymore. If I would make that choice for you Daryl, and make it wrong, how can I do it for other people? I’m the one who shot Negan. Don’t get me wrong, I’d do it a thousand times over, but it was my choice. It was my lover dying outside the gates that started this. Everything we’ve done until now has been self-defence, how can I ask people to die for a war I started?

_Don’ matter who started it, Rick, it’s self-defence now. The Saviours ain’t gon’ accept any terms from Alexandria anymore._

How can you know that? I mean, how much control did Negan have over them? What if they didn’t even want to fight in the first place?

_Bastard’s made their choice. It sucks, but this shit’s a war now. They ain’t gon’ hesitate, so you can’t go second-guessing crap anymore either. ‘S how you end up dead._

This all made you so ruthless, Daryl.

 

* * *

 

 

The meeting is out on the street. Suppose with the future of the entire settlement at stake, it’s only fair to have it in the open. Still, it’s a lot of eyes on us. I’d feel better if you were here.  I never realised quite how much I’d come to rely on your support, until it was gone.

Maggie’s here. It’s her first time back to Alexandria since Glenn’s death. It’s surprised the hell of out a lot of people, but only the ones who don’t know her well. She can’t let herself stay away from this any more than I can. Clear on her face she’s coping like weathered steel. A hawk-eyed stare and a hardened jaw, just daring anyone to suggest she shouldn’t be here. But there’s tiredness in her eyes too, it betrays tears and sleepless nights. She’s struggling. Like me. 

It’s something we’ll talk about eventually. Away from prying eyes.

People offer me condolences, then back away. They don’t seem to know what else to say. Can’t say I blame them either, not like there’s anything I want to hear. Everyone knows you and I were close, no one quite seems sure how close. Don’t think I knew myself.

 I feel like I see criticism in some of their eyes. Don’t know if I’m imagining it, but I’m wary of the ones who never really knew you. They know the events of yesterday sparked a war, but they have no idea _why._ No idea what we lost. I wonder if they resent me, if they think it would have been better to leave you in the middle of the street, to die all alone. Maybe they suspect we could have made a new peace with Negan, if only I hadn’t _shot_ him.

I might be facing a mutiny, Daryl. Hell.

There’s a few that mean something, though. Tara, Jesus, Sasha. Folks that loved you. Michonne’s been hit nearly as hard as I have.

Did you know, Daryl? It was her. She put you to rest when I couldn't. Slid the knife right in once she knew it had to be her, no hesitation, like you'd have wanted.

 I’m so sorry I couldn’t. It _should_ have been me, after everything I surely owed you that much. But I’m a coward after all. You’d call me a fucking idiot and God, I _was_ , but holding your body in my arms and praying for a goddamn miracle I just couldn’t bring myself to hurt a hair on your head. If you’d turned fast enough I might have just let you go, out into the wilderness somewhere. Even knowing what happened to Morgan, I might have just let you go. That’s how _deranged_ I was. You'd have never forgiven me for that, and I couldn't have forgiven myself. What if you’d bit Carl? What if you found your way back to Alexandria and bit one of our children because I had _let_ you go, Daryl? 

Maybe this meeting is a bad idea. I’m going to be sick.

 “You have the support of the Hilltop.” Jesus confirms. Apparently it’s too late, we’ve already started. I close my eyes and try to drive away the nausea in my stomach.

“Isn’t that Gregory’s decision?” Michonne inquires. “Where is he anyway?”

Jesus shakes his head. “Doesn’t know about this meeting.” He raises a hand before anyone could interrupt. “Believe me, that’s for the best. His command is precarious at best, we can get the people onside.”

Maggie nods curtly. “Far as his people are concerned, we speak for the Hilltop now.”

Michonne pauses for a second, as if satisfying herself of the truth in their words, before continuing. “Alright, I doubt it’ll be enough though, unless the Saviors are fragmenting on their own. We’ll need Ezekiel and the Kingdom with us too.”

No one says anything. I wonder if it means people don’t trust Ezekiel. If that’s yet another obstacle in our way. It’s only when I look up and me everyone’s gaze that I realise the silence is for _me_. I’m the leader. I’m supposed to make some kind of decision.

“I, um,” I cough. Try to focus my thoughts. Ezekiel, the Kingdom. They haven’t had their arms confiscated like us, not yet. We’ll need that kind of firepower. “Yeah, that’s a good idea. We should send a couple of people, see if he can send over some ammunition.”

There was a different silence this time, more uncertain. Michonne shakes her head, “We’ll need more than ammunition, Rick. We need his _people_.”

I can’t.

His people aren’t involved in this. They never even knew Daryl.

“What, and risk getting them killed in this? No way.” I brought this on us. It’s my fault, I may have brought Alexandria into it, but I can’t let others die in my crusade for revenge.

“They’re in this as deep as we are,” she shrugged. “They pay the same tributes we do. Their interest as much as ours to be free.”

“Yeah, but none of them have _died_ yet. And it should stay that way.” I struggle to stop a trace of hysteria entering my voice. _This isn’t a game._

“They will,” Maggie states matter-of-factly, her piercing stare challenging me to disagree. “Whether they fight or not. Saviours ain’t interested in playing happy families. We all risk death, Rick, every day. That’s what this life _is.”_

_She’s right, Rick. You know that._

Shut up. You’re not here. You don’t get to tell me things like that anymore.

I meet her gaze for a few seconds, but I can’t hold it. She scares me. In that moment I truly realise how _strong_ she really is. How she’s holding it all together so much better than me.

I look away and and instead look around the table. There’s an array of faces clearly in support of  Maggie and recruiting the Kingdom. Closing my eyes and pressing my knuckles to my temple, I eventually nod. “Alright, alright. Let’s assume we get them on board, and they’re actually crazy enough to help us. What then?” He asked.

Michonne, Jesus and Maggie immediately break into tactical discussions. There’s a coherence and understanding between them that tells me they’ve already talked about this before now. Makes sense, I guess, Michonne was the one who travelled to Hilltop with the news, the three of them came back here together and spent the morning together. Only logical they should use all the time they have to start planning. Common sense, even. But I can’t help but be irritated. I’ve been left out even though it’s my place to co-ordinate this stuff, I should be the one hearing out ideas and making decisions.

Of course, it’s hypocritical to be annoyed. Not like I’ve exactly been taking control. Even now, I’m struggling to keep up with the details. My eyes hurt and my head is absolutely throbbing from lack of sleep. I can’t help but watch weakly as the conversation drifts from one topic to another, everyone else so focused, so _determined_. I’m trying to discern the key points best I can, but my mind keeps refocusing to this same irritation I just can’t shake. How could they leave me out of it?

_C’mon, Rick. You know you ain’t angry at them for that._

Christ, is this how it’s gonna be from now on, Daryl? I had to see Lori’s ghost everywhere, now you’re the voice in my head?

You’re right, though, I guess. I’m not angry at that.

I guess I’m just annoyed that you’re dead and the world keeps turning like you ain't. It kills me that people are finding time to think about anything else.

 Far as I can tell, the plan is nothing short of a full-frontal assault. Deploying everyone at once, in a unilateral attack on every Savior base simultaneously. Recruiting every adult physically able to hold a gun. Risking it all, to win it all.

 “No.” I interrupt. And for the first time in a long time, the feeling of everyone’s eyes on me frightens me. “ _No._ This plan’s too dangerous. We risk losing every single settlement we have.”

“Rick we need to fight – ”

“ _I know_ ,” I hear the aggression in my voice and flinch. It surprises even me. I take a breath to calm down, “I _know_ we do... but what if it goes wrong? What if they figure out we’re coming, and set up some kind of barricade, talk out half of us before we even get close to the gates? Who’s going to protect everyone at home once they mow us down?”

I'm playing it cautious. That's not me and they don't understand why I'm doing it. Michonne replies gently, “They’ll know we’re coming Rick, we can’t avoid that, but the more time we give them the better the chance they have to rebuild, chose a new leader, organize a defence. Best to go in quick with everything, end this before anything else happens.”

The words “anything else” hurt more than they have any right to. I’m caught between not being able to imagine anything else causing worse pain than what I’m already going though, and knowing, _knowing_ that losing either of my children would somehow be anyway. But that’s why we can’t take risks like this. “They have the superior numbers, superior supplies. We’ll never win a war like this!”

_Shouldn’t say shit like that, Rick._

I know, I know it hurts morale, but _whatever,_ it’s too fucking dangerous!

“Do you have another plan, Rick?”

My throat closes up. Running my hands through my hair, I stare at the meticulously drawn map in front of me (who made it, Tara?) and try desperately to think of any other way we can do this. There must be some way that wouldn’t lead to any more bloodshed. Some way to ensure we all stay _safe._

Maggie doesn’t wait long enough for me to respond. She gazes at me with something, I can’t tell if it’s empathy or pity, and addresses the entirety of the group. “It’s true, they have more people and guns than we do. But that doesn’t mean we can’t win. We’ve only got as far as we have because we are stronger than anyone else we’ve ever met. You all saw what Rick did yesterday, outside the gate. You all saw how _one man_ downed more than five Saviors with a single pistol, including Negan himself. That’s what we are. We will show them _what we are_.”

If Maggie’s reference to my actions outside the gate is supposed to make me feel better, it doesn’t have the intended effect. It wasn’t enough, was it? Yes, I killed more Saviors than should have been humanly possible, but it still hadn’t been _enough_. What good has it actually done, in the end? Negan is dead, but I still couldn’t save you and that’s the only reason I did it.

And now I’ve started a war that will doubtless kill many more.

I’m so sorry, Daryl.

I can’t be here. “I need to go,” I mutter. Head splitting, and unable to take it a moment longer, I stand up and leave unceremoniously. I worry it’ll hold up the meeting, but the group is so wrapped up in the fervour of planning the attack I’m not even sure they notice.

I manage to get all the way back to my house before Maggie catches up to me.

“Rick!”

I wedge the door open with my foot and rub my eyes. She’s going to want to talk and I’m just not ready. “I’m alright, Maggie. I just didn’t sleep well, figure I’m going to need some more shut-eye before we start doing this.”

I try to move inside, but her hand is on my arm, holding me back. “Don’t shut me out, Rick. Please.”

Truth be told, that was exactly what I intended to do, and anyone else I might have shrugged off and told to mind their own business. But this was Maggie. She knows my grief, and so much more on top of it. I suddenly feel quite selfish for considering pushing her away. I was never married to Daryl, I’m not carrying his child. Hell, I don’t even know if Daryl really returned my feelings. We never got to be like her and Glenn, how could I ever imagine what she has been through?

I meet her gaze, and hold it this time. I let the door close.

She bites her lip and stares at me. She looks uncertain for the first time in a while, and I realise that she keeps it hidden from the rest of the group.  “I miss him too,” she says, not feeling the need to clarify who. “We all do. He was a good man, more than that. He was family. We all loved him.”

She gently strokes my arm. It’s the first time anyone has touched me since you, and it strikes me that it might have been considered a romantic gesture in any other context. It feels nothing other than comforting now. “Neither of them deserved what happened.” Her words are similar to others I’ve heard today, but there’s an understanding behind them that’s new.

I nod, half expecting there to be a ‘but.’ _But they’re gone now. But you need to keep it together. We need you to lead us. This isn’t the time for moping around._

It doesn’t come though. Her hand just rests there. Letting there be this connection between us.  Grief flowing from one soul to another. I cover it with my own and look at her.

How does she do that? How does she stay so strong? It was plain as day that she and Glenn had loved each other as much as two people ever could. I saw the anguish on her face when it happened, something resembling that same screaming agony I feel all the time now. I know it must be tearing her up inside, because there’s no way you can go through that and just have it _not._ But she doesn’t show it. She’s ironclad, immovable, _sublime_. I see in her everything I _should_ be but am not.

Eventually I break the silence myself. “I’m trying to pull it together, Maggie. I am. We’re going to war and I know you all need me here and present for what’s coming.” I gently place her hand back down by her side. “I’m not abandoning you.”

Her expression seems strained, like it wasn’t the answer she was looking for, or perhaps she didn’t believe me. “Rick...”

“He was important to me.” I choke out, not quite able to say his name out loud yet. _I loved him_. “I cared a lot about him, and I won’t pretend like this isn’t hitting me hard. But I know the rest of us are still alive. I still have my son to think about. I won’t let you down – ”

“ _Rick,”_ Maggie insists, her eyes pleading for me to stop. Once I do, she shifts uncomfortably, like she’s struggling with what she wants to say. “I don’t... _we_ don’t think you should lead us. Not right now.”

Lost for words, I just stare at her.

Once she seems confident the words have sunk in and I’m not going to lash out at her, she folds her arms and speaks more firmly. “Look Rick, I’m one of the only people who remembers what you were like at the prison, after...well, after the last time this happened.” She avoids Lori’s name and I guess I’m grateful for that. “Look at you! Your eyes are bloodshot and your hands are shaking, everyone back there saw it. You’re not ready for this, you’re still grieving.”

“And you’re _not?”_ I’m instantly horrified by myself. I have no idea where that came from. “ _Shit_ Maggie, I’m sorry...”

Somehow, bafflingly, she just lets the remark roll off her with that same flawless composure. “You _know_ I am. But you and I grieve differently, Rick. You need to process it, you need to work out what it means for you before you can focus on anything else. I’m different, I need to keep busy, bury it. I need to deny the pain like hell as long as I can. I won’t pretend it’s any more healthy than what you do, but we ain’t exactly got shrinks to judge that stuff anymore.” She gives a small smile at the last part. “The point is I _need_ to fight right now. You need to mourn.”

“You think I don’t want to fight?” I say, bitterly. She’s entirely right, of course, but I can’t let it lie just yet. I take a step towards her and gesture angrily.  “You think I don’t want to make them pay? _They murdered him!_ They killed – ” my voice falters, and I want to cry at how hard it is to just say his _name._ “They killed _Daryl_.”

And at that I break, as if just by saying I killed him all over again. I can feel the heat rising to my face and moisture collecting at the corner of my eyes.

Maggie’s eyes fill with that same emotion from the meeting, except this time it’s obvious it’s not pity. I wonder how I could have ever thought it was. “I know you do. And we _will_ need you fighting, just like we need every other able body we’ve got. But let us lead on this one. You’ve given up everything to keep this group alive. Let us decide how best to handle it. And I promise, once we get into the Savior camp we’ll avenge Daryl and Glenn together. _All_ of us. We’ll kill every one of the bastards.”

 

* * *

 

I fall back against the closed door, a little ashamed of myself. I wish I had the strength to argue with Maggie, to insist that I’m fine to protect this place. But she’s right, isn’t she? I’m not ready.  I can’t even keep up in a simple meeting, they’d all die under my leadership.

I climb up to the bedroom. I’m not really sure why I think I’ll be able to sleep any better than I did last night, but I guess I can’t face up to much else right now.

We only shared this room a few times. Don’t really make sense that it should feel empty now, but it does.

God, when did you become such an integral part of my life? It’s barely been any time at all since we first kissed, first confessed feeling something other than plain companionship for one another. But we were something long before that, weren’t we? Since we met there’s barely been a day when you haven’t been at my side.

That had been so long ago, they’d all been so naive back then. No one had any idea what it took to survive in this world. They had Shane, a qualified instructor, for God’s sake, and they’d actually hesitated about training the whole group to hold a firearm. Some sentimental part of them still clinging to the old rules of society. There was this idea, so absolutely _ridiculous_ in hindsight, that it was still somehow obscene for a civilian to have a gun. That they could survive without it.

_In’t that what you’re trying to do now Rick? Avoid the fight? You know we can’t live like that no more._

Easy for you to say, Daryl. We all needed time to learn, even the cops. Everyone except you. I remember the way you’d been birthed from the woods, bitching about the walker who’d stolen your deer, in the same way normal people might about a neighbour swiping their newspaper. You’d prowled around the carcass like a hungry lion, lashing out at Dale and anyone else who came close. You scared me, Daryl. So much that I forgot for a moment I actually had something to tell you.

And hadn’t _that_ gone well. In a better world we might have met fishing by a cobalt lake, or bumped knees in some backwater bar. Of course, more likely we wouldn’t have met at all, except maybe under the accusatory glow of blue flashing lights. But as it was, in this world, we met with that awful confession about what I’d done to your brother, you brandishing six inches of steel and lashing out with all the aggression of a cornered beast.

I thought about killing you back then. Maybe that would surprise you, but I don’t think so. Back then you thought I’d left Merle for dead, so I’m sure it occurred to you I’d do it again.

I wouldn’t have outright, wouldn’t have murdered anyone, not back then, but if the situation had merited it, I might have let it happen. You were obviously dangerous, you emanated the same breeding as Merle and I thought you might threaten the group the same way he did. Perhaps, I thought, it would have been easier to just see the end of both of you. It was funny now, to think that in those early days I’d slept in fear of _you_ slitting my throat while Shane slept not ten feet away.

Except it’s not really funny, Daryl. That was my mistake, and I was so, so wrong to make it. You’ve been treated that way your whole life. I took away the only family you had and the first thing I did was treat you with the same damn prejudice everyone else did. I’m not sure I ever apologised for that. Maybe you didn’t want to hear it, maybe that would too awkward or emotional for you, but I should have anyway. I had so many opportunities. Every time I felt your hand on my shoulder or saw you cradling our daughter, I should have told you how sorry I am.

Fuck, I don’t know. Maybe I should have done worse. Threatened you right from the start, driven you far away. You would have been okay on your own, Daryl. Might have even found Merle before the Governor did what he did to him. It was my recklessness and arrogance that got you captured. The same thing that’s leading us into war now. You didn’t die because you were too slow, or stupid, or weak. You died because of us, because you couldn’t just kneel while we were being taunted and murdered, and wouldn’t use your freedom to go anywhere but _home_. How many times now have you been beaten and tortured for the group? None of it would have happened I hadn’t let you in in the first place. You’d be safe. The thought of never knowing you kills me, but I guess I wouldn’t have even known what I was missing.

God, you’d be _safe._


End file.
